Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce: Part 2: Chapter 4.2

                                                                                  II

England

Priory of Sixhills

April 1310

A light breeze shifted the parchment and teased the herbs drying upon the trestle in the morning room. Absorbed in her task, Kirsty worked diligently in a peace so quiet the heavy, somnolent drone of bees could be heard from outside in the herb garden. All the nuns were away to their prayers in the chapel. After four long years, the prisoner was permitted to leave her cell; only for prescribed times, mind, to attend to the manufacture of salves and lotions. The latter were described in the medical treatises that she translated – only she could determine their meaning. To speak of them was still forbidden, so it was quicker if she made up the mixtures herself. Kirsty was not unhappy with these precious periods of freedom. Any time away from her small, cold cell was relief indeed.

Once given the role of being Kirsty's main provider, Aethelrida had saved her from some of the worst privations and abuses administered by two of the most hardened nuns. Sometimes, she broke the rules around silence and whispered to her of small things: what to do about Sister Mary's in-grown toenails or the prioress's painful piles and poor digestion? Oft-times, it was gossipy chat; who had slept late and was now in dire trouble or how old Sister Agnetha had broken wind in Mass, mellifluously and at some length, and the censure which ensued. For the young novices who giggled into their wimples, punishment was to be administered. God had sent them here to learn humility, the prioress stated emphatically, and so they forfeited Sister Beatrice's cooking that night. All knew she was going blind and did not know her cumin from her peppers. It was scarcely a punishment. One memorable time, the old woman put a cupful of their precious salt into the bread, mistaking it for flour.

Humming an old, half-remembered Gaelic tune, the prisoner pounded and mixed, stirred for a while, then added some angelica. The mixture took on the right hue and texture. Dipping a fingertip into the foul brew, Kirsty screwed up her face and then gave a wry smile. It was perfect! Just then, the oak door swung slowly open. A monk stood in the darkened doorway. He squinted into the brighter light. "Sister Aethelrida?" he queried. Kirsty shook her head. "And ye are?" he asked.

"Christina, though some call me Kirsty, sister of the crowned king of Scots." These words were spoken far more boldly than she intended. She was unsure of this man, and what harm might befall her for speaking thus.

"Ah yes... the prisoner. I was hoping we might meet one day. Are ye permitted to speak?" Kirsty shook her head once again. She was unused to formal conversation and was in no hurry to see what this monk – the first man she had seen in years – would say.

"Then, I shall speak, and no rules will be broken. My name is Brother Robert. I was known by the name of Mannyng and knew your brother at Cambridge. I joined the Gilbertines many years ago. It is I who send the treatises to the prioress." At the mention of Alexander, Kirsty's face lit up. Any news of her brother was as welcome as rain upon a parched seed. The canon paused. He seemed shaken for a moment and then proceeded.

"Your brother was a fine scholar, the brightest ever to achieve so highly in his studies." A shadow fell across Kirsty's face for the monk, this acquaintance of her brother, couched his words as if Alexander was no longer. Noting her confusion, he paused, searching for the right words, but gave up for there were none. "I am sorry, my lady, but your brother was killed several years ago. On the orders of our king's father, he was executed, along with your brother, Thomas. They were part of an attack upon Galloway in the company of Irish brigands."

Kirsty slumped against the trestle and the heavy pestle which she had been using, rolled slowly off, landing with a thud upon the stone flags. Its haphazard momentum continued until the leg of a stool blocked its path.

Cursing himself for his off-handed and thoughtless way of delivering such news, the monk leaned over and picked up the implement, laying it back in its place. As he did so, dust motes drifting in a patch of sunlight caught his eye. "Your brothers, Robert and Edward, continue to be the scourge of England," he said as if this might in some way compensate for her loss, but then gave up, nonplussed. The room smelt of the earth, layered with moss, leaf and bracken. It reminded him of the last burial he had attended. Outside in the corridor, there were hushed, hurried voices, the flurry of rustling habits and slap of leather sandals. As the monk turned to depart, pain and sorrow could be seen etched across his face. The words he spoke came as soft as a scattering of leaves upon a grave, "I truly am sorry. Alexander was an exceptional man. I, too, mourn his passing."

When Aethelrida returned from her duties, she found Kirsty curled into a tight, pale ball in the corner of the chamber, weeping piteously; her brothers, whom she had imagined for so long in high spirits and robust health, had been dead for years.